


University: The Next Frontier

by Meatball42



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: A creative one, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But not a shitty one I hope, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover, Fashion & Couture, Gen, Ianto's Coffee, Modeling, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Study skills, University, While I figure out what the heck I'm writing here, college counseling, more tags to come, to each their own
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-04 12:06:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5333522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meatball42/pseuds/Meatball42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various members of Torchwood, Companions of the Doctor, and associates unite to prepare you for your upcoming four-year mission: to explore strange new majors, to seek out new trades and new knowledge, to boldly go where you, at least, have never gone before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: College Counseling with Donna Noble

**Author's Note:**

> This series started more than three years ago, but it’s not complete, and I don’t like posting incomplete things. However, several of these chapters are done, and I figured better out than in, as they say. I’m going to try to do a post every day for advent, but don’t be surprised if (when) that crashes and burns.
> 
> Feel free to give me prompts once you see what I'm doing. (Do I see what I'm doing? Where am I?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your adventure begins in an unassuming office.

You approach the office warily, as though it could swallow you up. Its door is propped open invitingly, and a deep maroon placard beside it reads ‘University Counseling’ in calming yellow letters.

You gulp.

Inside, the walls are a uniform cream, the seats furnished in maroon. The reception desk is a deep mahogany, though it looks brown compared to the fiery red of the receptionist’s hair. She is speaking on the office telephone, but gives you a polite, if disinterested, smile as you enter.

All in all, it’s not as terrifying as you were expecting. You step up to the desk, and after a few moments you figure out that the red-headed woman is chatting with a friend. She looks up at you expectantly.

“Excuse me,” you begin, but one manicured finger raises and points to the waiting chairs. “I just want to make an appoint-” The finger jabs again, more assertively. The red-head’s eyebrows have raised, and your shoulders slump. You go sit on one of the surprisingly comfortable chairs and start to browse the magazines.

A few minutes later, the receptionist’s conversation comes to an end. You forget about the magazines and approach the desk. “Are any counselors available?” you ask.

“Nope, they’re all gone for the day,” she says frankly, cracking gum you hadn’t realized she was chewing.

“You couldn’t have told me that fifteen minutes ago?” You cross your arms.

“I was hoping for some conversation,” she says casually, as though she waylays strangers for conversations daily. You huff, and she looks at you more intently. “And you looked like you could use some help.”

You’re still a bit peeved. “Don’t you have work to do?”

She shrugs. “I’m going to be fired soon anyway. I called the Headmistress a lying slag.”

You choke. “Mrs. Duran?!” You can’t help but laugh when you imagine the look on your much-hated Headmistress’s face.

The receptionist reaches over the front of the desk. “Donna Noble.”

You shake her hand and introduce yourself, then lean against the desk.

“So what are you here for?” Donna asks, putting her elbows up by her keyboard as though she’s ready for a good gossip.

“I was hoping for some advice on universities, obviously.” You motion around the office. “I’m not sure what career I want, or about what courses to take.”

Donna frowns. “You’re not going to get much help with that here. All these people will do is bury you in uni pamphlets and print-outs.”

“Oh,” you say quietly.

She watches you for a moment, then digs into her purse. “How about this. You seem nice enough, I’ve got some friends I think could help you. “ She pulls out her mobile again and starts composing a text.

You blink. “Wait, how do you have mobile service in here? I already tried.”

Donna grins. “Oh, I get service _everywhere_.”


	2. Study Skills with Ianto Jones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are just as important as class. Ianto has some advice on how to survive in Uni.

“One of the most important things you need to learn as you embark on your days in university,” Ianto tells you seriously, “is good study skills. Without them, you won’t be able to learn anything. You can read textbooks for hours on end, stare at complicated maths equations and chemistry formulas, read Shakespeare until you’re thinking in Iambic Pentameter, but if you do not learn to properly notate, summarize and cite then it will all be for nothing.”

Ianto motions for you to follow him. He strides confidently across the Hub. You follow him, trying not to trip over computer cables and oddly-placed steps as you stare around. You were given a tour of the Hub during your first visit so that you wouldn’t get into anything dangerous, but it is still impressive.

You nearly bump into Ianto when he stops suddenly. You look around the space you have reached. It is discretely placed near enough to the main Hub that one could participate in conversation, but there is also a certain amount of privacy in the barriers separating it from the main space. On a few tables in a neat half circle are a full cafetiere set and various packages, satchels and cans all featuring labels or pictures relating to coffee.

“Do you drink coffee?” Ianto asks.

You are somewhat startled by the question. “Er, no. I drink tea.”

A vague look of disappointment shadows Ianto’s face for an instant, but it passes. “You are properly English, I suppose.” Before you can become affronted, he continues. “Well, it is just an example.” He motions you to a chair conveniently placed in front of the cafetiere and sets about making a brew.

“You may take notes if you like,” he says casually. You take out your notepad and pencil and are gratified to see a hint of approval.

“I try not to make too much coffee for the others,” Ianto begins. “For one thing, it has lots of caffeine. Coffee is good for a pick-me-up in the mornings, especially if you’ve stayed up late studying- do put that in your notes-” he turns around to tell you. You blink, stop watching the effortless movement of his hands on the machine and take down the notes- “but if taken too late in the afternoon, or in too high of a dose, it can cause sleep troubles, even if you do fall asleep at a reasonable time.”

Somehow, he knows that you have a question. “Yes?”

“When Jack brought me down here, he said you make them coffee all the time, though.”

“That’s true,” Ianto admits. “However, we are five people working to protect the human race from alien threats. Sometimes we need an extra caffeine jolt to keep us at the ready. And Jack really does puppy-eyes too well.”

Ianto looks disappointed in himself for a moment and you smother a smile. It seems you weren’t fast enough, however, for he gives you a suspicious look. “In any case, I’m sure you will not require stimulants to keep you awake all day when you are at University.”

You nod solemnly, and this time hide the smile until he has continued brewing the coffee.

“For me, coffee is relaxing. Making it allows me to take time away from an otherwise busy schedule and have a moment to myself. In addition, I can be creative with what brews and syrups I use, and the experimentation is interesting. To me, at least. The others wouldn’t know what I put in the coffee if it was made from their own bodily fluids.”

Ianto turns around to face you, holding a mug in each hand. There is steam rising from them, and the aroma nearly makes your head spin- you were too nervous to eat much lunch and the coffee really does smell heavenly.

“What have we covered today?” Ianto asks. There is an intelligent twinkle in his eye which tells you that you oughtn’t need to consult your notes for this.

“Caffiene is a good resource, but is not to be relied upon too heavily,” you say after considering for a moment. “Taking time away from work to calm your mind can help you keep your sanity. Also, it’s good to have a hobby.”

Ianto smiles and hands you a mug. You sip it, and immediately melt down into a chair.

“Congratulations,” he tells you. “You just passed your first course.”

 


	3. Fashion with the Eleventh Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The United Kingdom’s Next Top Doctor

You are waiting in the console room of the Tardis, admiring the scenery. The console and floor are sleek glass and metal constructs, and the walls are backlit with all the colors of the rainbow. When the Doctor sweeps into the room, you stand up.

“Welcome!” he says, throwing his arms out as though to share the entire Tardis with you. He is wearing a long flowing robe over his torso and arms, a rich green fabric that shimmers in the light from the walls. You nearly choke when you see the red leather pants and sombrero (singed on one side) that he has matched with it.

“Are you ready for your fashion lesson?” he asks. You nod politely, having lost your power of speech from the brightness of his outfit, and as he turns to lead you deeper into the Tardis you can see the complex embroidery on the back of his robe. It looks like… a yellow beaver?

“No, this isn’t a beaver!” the Doctor explains when you ask. He looks a bit surprised at your mistake, but takes pleasure in regaling you with a tale of the High Priest of uuuuuuuuton, whose image on the Doctor’s robe was a gift for retrieving a sacred relic.

When the two of you arrive at the wardrobe you are amazed at the vast expanse of clothes of every sort. You can see swimsuits, spacesuits, dinner suits, wetsuits, flowing dresses and full-body robes, one-piece garments made of shining silver fabric, clothes that appear to be shaped for small animals and others for giants. There are scarves and belts and gloves and piles upon piles of socks. You manage to close your mouth after an unknown amount of time.

“Are there shoes?” you ask. “Surely a wardrobe as extensive as this must have shoes.”

“Oh, this is just the first room!” the Doctor exclaims, grinning at your dumbstruck expression. “There’s an entire floor for shoes, and jewelry- I’ve had a lot of companions who liked that sort of thing-” he says as an aside, “-but they move around a lot, we’ll have to find them.” Then he suddenly becomes very serious.

“Now. The first thing you need to remember about fashion is this: do  _ not _ , under any circumstances, wear plaid and polka dots together.  _ Especially _ . Not. With. Stripes.” He emphasizes this point very sharply with hand gestures and furrowed eyebrows.

Having scrambled to get out your notepad and pen, you are a bit annoyed. “I already know  _ that _ ,” you insist.

“Really!” The Doctor raises his eyebrows. “Great! ’Cause if you wear those patterns in combination on $untyuf v adp you could be put to death! Only made that mistake once,” he reminisces. “Anyway, if you’ve got the basics we can move on.”

After blinking a few times, you follow him to the next room. You feel slightly relieved to see something as familiar as a changing room in this wondrous and foreign place.

“Here’s the really important bit,” the Doctor tells you, gesturing with his entire arms as he speaks. “There are two ways to do fashion- firstly!”

Without even an instant to breath, the Doctor leaps into the changing booth. There is a great flash of blue light and you cover your eyes. When you manage to blink the shadows out of your vision, the Doctor has left the booth and is standing in front of you again.

You do a double-take. Instead of that weird robe, pants and hat, the Doctor is wearing a proper suit- black with dark grey pinstripes- a dark blue shirt, a subtly striped tie and a tall black top hat. The effect is an air of absolute elegance and sophistication.

“Doctor, you look-”

“Rather dapper, don’t I?” he agrees, checking the outfit in a conveniently-placed full-length mirror. “But here’s the thing: I don’t like it.”

“But it looks great!” you protest as he starts tearing at the collar of the suit.

“And that’s your first mistake!” The Doctor points directly at you, his torn-off tie trailing the motion apathetically. “It looks great, that’s true. I’m a great-looking man,” he smiles charmingly, teeth flashing, “I’ll look good no matter what I wear. I’d rather wear-”

He hops into the booth again. Prepared this time, you cover your eyes before you are blinded. The Doctor steps out of the booth, wearing a brown tweed jacket and a red bow-tie over a normal white button-up and dark slacks. He snaps bright red braces. “ _ This _ .”

As you look over the outfit, you find yourself conflicted. It’s nowhere near as  _ suave  _ as the suit was, but somehow, this outfit seems to fit the Doctor better.

“It works for you,” you admit. “I can imagine it looking boring or weird on anyone else, but you can pull it off.”

“That’s the most important thing, in my opinion,” the Doctor tells you with a smile. “I like this style. It’s mine.”

“But... you’re not worried that it looks... uncool?”

“Uncool? Un- _ cool _ ?” he stutters. “I’m wearing a  _ bow-tie _ . I can’t actually  _ get _ more cool!” He flails a little, then settles. “I have lived for hundreds of years, and yes I’ve been laughed at, and run out of places, but the important thing is that I’ve always been me.”

Your breath catches at the sudden aura of wisdom around him.

“Well, I mean, several different mes, so I suppose I haven’t always been the same me, but...” He rubs at the back of his neck, and a bit of the magic is lost.

“But! Look here!” He shoves you into the changing booth and you scramble to cover your eyes. After the flash, the Doctor calls you out.

“Wow!” Your jaw drops as you look in the mirror. “I look  _ good _ ! I wouldn’t have thought of this combination, but...”

The Doctor throws his arm around your shoulders. “You look brilliant. No-” He reaches to a nearby shelf and plops a fez on your head. “Now you look brilliant. This is  _ your _ fashion, and it beats mainstream styles any day.”

“I think you need a hat, too,” you point out.

“Oh, I’ve got one!” He grabs a chef’s hat from the shelf and flops it majestically on his crown. It clashes horribly with the rest of his outfit, but he looks so proud, and you can’t help but burst out laughing.


End file.
